"Yes, an electronic brain," said Frankie, "a simple one would suffice."
"A simple one!" wailed Arthur.
"Yeah," said Zaphod with a sudden evil grin, "you'd just have to program it to say What? and I don't understand and Where's the tea? Who'd know the difference?"
"What?" cried Arthur, backing away still farther.
"See what I mean?" said Zaphod, and howled with pain because of something that Trillian did at that moment.
"I'd notice the difference," said Arthur.
"No, you wouldn't," said Frankie mouse, "you'd be programmed not to."
Ford made for the door.
"Look, I'm sorry, mice, old lads," he said. "I don't think we've got a deal."
"I rather think we have to have a deal," said the mice in chorus, all the charm vanishing from their piping little voices in an instant. With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air toward Arthur, who stumbled farther backward into a blind corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything.
Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him toward the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open, but Arthur was deadweight--he seemed hypnotized by the airborne rodents swooping toward him.
She screamed at him, but he just gaped.
With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open. On the other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea. Not only were they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with them was also far from pretty. They charged.
So--Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was unable to help him and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than they were.
All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every alarm on the planet burst into an earsplitting din.
Arthur is still, understandably, in a state of complete panic. Benjy and Frankie want to remove and dice his brain. Zaphod seems all for the idea, but Zaphod also performed surgery on his own brain some time in the past. Things seem to be reaching a crisis point in the book. What will our heroes do? Will they escape the bloodthirsty white mice? Will Arthur be able to save his brain? Or get his tea? Stay tuned.
It is Labor Day in the United States, a Monday set aside to celebrate the contributions of the labor movement and unions in the United States. Of course, few people actually even think about organized labor history on this day. Mostly, it's about having a three-day weekend and barbecuing one last time before we admit that autumn has arrived.
There usually isn't a whole lot of panic on Labor Day (certainly not on the scale of battling brain-hungry mice). It's a lazy time. Unless you're like me. I just spent several hours preparing for teaching this week. Lesson planning. E-mailing. Tidying up my online course materials. Labor Day has been about actual labor for me.
Now, however, I feel very prepared for the coming work days. I don't have to spend hours this evening getting my shit together, which is normally my style. I tend to procrastinate. A lot. This character flaw usually gets me in a lot of trouble during the academic year. I am determined not to let that happen this semester. We will see if I'm able to stick to it.
Writing my post last night (actually, early this morning), I said that I felt a real sense of peace in my heart, something that I haven't experienced in a while. Of course, as I said last night, that kind of peace only comes when you've really reached the end of your rope. You've exhausted all of your energies to try to change things. That's when you throw up your arms and surrender.
And that's where I was last night. Waving the white flag at God and submitting to His will. God always wins this battle. Yet, it's a very human thing, trying to take control and run the show. We all like to believe that we're in charge of our own lives. In a way, we are. We make choices which determine the courses of our lives. Some of those choices are good. Some of those choices are bad.
God doesn't interfere with freewill. He just takes the mess that we make of things and transforms it into something beautiful, if we let Him. Of course, if we continue to make bad choices, God's work is a lot harder. Some people are more stubborn than others. They hold onto their "power," refusing to admit their mistakes. In a situation like that, God doesn't have much to work with. He has to sit back, watch everything fall apart, and then start putting the pieces back together again.
God doesn't give up on anyone, though. He may stand back and shake His head when you sneak out at night like a teenager to get drunk or meet up with a girlfriend/boyfriend. Yet, He will always welcome you home, when you make the choice to return. Ask the prodigal son. God's love and forgiveness are infinite.
People make mistakes. Lots of them. Including me, believe it or not. Early this morning, as I was sitting at my laptop, typing a blog post about loneliness, I felt overwhelmingly comforted. As if God was sitting in the chair beside me, nodding His head, putting His arm around my shoulders. Before that moment, I had been tired, a little beaten down, and I said aloud, "I give up. I can't do this anymore. It's in Your hands, God." Everyone else was in bed, asleep, and I was sitting at the kitchen table at one in the morning. Yet, I didn't feel alone anymore.
I'm sure that I'm not done with despair, or despair's not done with me. Tonight, though, I hold on to that peace of complete surrender. I'm going to read a good book this evening. Maybe play a game with my son before he goes to bed. Then, when the house is asleep, I will say a prayer of surrender for everyone I love. I will give them over to God. My son for his first day of school tomorrow. My daughter for her second week of college. My wife for her struggles with mental illness and addiction. And myself.
As Psalm 55 instructs, Saint Marty is casting all his burdens on the Lord, and the Lord will sustain Saint Marty and everyone he loves.
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